Clay was sat in the armchair inside his study. It was red velvet, the rest of the room was somewhat fancy with a dark colour palette. A few heads of animals were mounted on the wall, he had a bear rug beneath his feet and a shot glass in his hand.

Clay's elbow rested on the coffee table on the left of him. He sighed, taking a long, sharp inhale from his pipe and then exhaled a puff of the grey smoke.

His wife, Bloberta, was beneath him, aggressively scrubbing at the hardwood flooring of his study with a sponge. She was obsessed with cleaning, it pissed him off.

Clay scoffed at her, God, he hated that woman. Actually, not 'god', that would be using the heavenly father's name in vain, 'gosh' — gosh, he hated that woman. He couldn't stand her.

Clay couldn't stand her OCD, her obsessive cleaning, he couldn't stand knowing that the reason he became an alcoholic was because she encouraged him and made him absolutely dependant on alcohol.

He drank to forget more than anything else. Clay drank to forget that he was a son, that he was a husband, that he was a father, that he was a boyfriend. That he was a mayor. Everything, all of it.

Clay looked down at Bloberta, who was beneath him, scrubbing harshly at the wooden floorboards with a kitchen sponge.

He took a sip of alcohol from his shot glass, using his spare hand to pet Bloberta's hair, but it wasn't sweet or gentle, he was treating it like a chore, and Bloberta could feel it in his touch.

Clay sighed. Her and her OCD, it was unbearable for Clay. Her obsessive cleaning was just too much for him. Too fucking much.

"Bloberta," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's clean enough. Get up." when Clay didn't get a response, he roughly smacked the back of her head with his hand.

"Bloberta. Go check on the boys, start on dinner, and then get me another drink." Clay hissed, not feeling a singular ounce of remorse for hurting her. Domestic abuse was extremely normalised. Both in their household, in the 1950s, in society, outside, and in Moraltown.